


Back to Me

by The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff



Series: Tumblr Kissing Prompts [5]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Compliant, I still suck at titles don't @ me, M/M, canon-typical talk of wanking, smoochin in the street
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 11:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff
Summary: Baz drives down from Watford to visit Simon during the spring term. Simon greets him with a kiss.





	Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

> So basically, y'all, I put up [a kissing prompt list](https://thehoneyedhufflepuff.tumblr.com/post/186806348697/50-types-of-kisses-writing-prompts) on [my Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thehoneyedhufflepuff) & I'm cross-posting here. 
> 
> Prompt: Throwing their arms around the other person’s neck, hugging them close before kissing them passionately on the lips.

**BAZ**

My father gave me the Jag before I returned to Watford for second term. 

He said he was going to give it to me anyway, as a graduation present, and that I might as well start using it. (Personally I think he just likes the idea of me having a getaway car, on the off-chance everything goes to complete shit again.) (Unlikely, with the Mage dead.) I’ve not told him how often I use it to travel down to London. To see my boyfriend. To see _ Simon. _(I think he might suspect, anyway, but he’s not said anything.) 

I’ve come down from Watford as often as I can this term; I can’t help myself. It used to be bad enough, being apart from Simon during holidays. Now that I have him, _ truly _have him, it’s been near torture just being without him for a few weeks on end. A few days, even.

I try to give myself some credit. Try not to think of myself as weak.

I’m not weak. I’m just sick in love. And Simon needs me, besides. (Which I can barely bloody believe, sometimes.) 

He has Bunce, of course, and her family. And he has me, too, in a way; we talk on the phone every night, now that the Mage’s ridiculous mobile ban’s been lifted at Watford. (I’ve been using an old mobile of mine, since the bloody numpties destroyed my other one. I’ve a mind to buy myself something nice and new for graduation.) (I don’t need something nice or new to talk to Simon. Just something that’ll let me hear his voice. Something that’ll let him hear mine. Something he can send me ridiculous YouTube videos on, not to mention all the criminally good-looking selfies he’s been wont to send these last months.) (If I didn’t know better, I’d take it as a personal attack. Here I was thinking I spent a lot of time wanking feelings away at age fifteen, sixteen. I’ve been putting my younger self to shame, but that’s alright. I’m not trying to free myself from him anymore.) (It’s better, this way. Much better.) 

Come to think of it, maybe it _ is _a personal attack. Just a more entertaining (and arousing) form of antagonism. (I do my best to give as good as I get, in any case.)

Bunce’s Hounslow neighborhood is familiar to me by now. The pull in my gut as I turn onto her street is familiar, too. It almost feels like the first time I met Simon, when the Crucible drew us together. (Fuck, I’m in deep, comparing this to the bloody _ Crucible. _ Aleister fucking Crowley.) (I was doomed from the start, really, all thanks to a fucking magickal _ bowl._) (I do thank it, honestly. Sometimes I wonder what school would’ve been like, if Simon and I weren’t roommates. The possibility alone terrifies me, and also I’m certain the last seven years would’ve been woefully predictable and a lot less entertaining.) (Less painful, too, I suppose, though I got what I wanted in the end. It was worth it, for that.) 

I pull up to the Bunces’ house, kill the Jag’s engine. The swell that rises in my chest is pleasant and petrifying all at once, because maybe, just _ maybe, _this is the time Simon tells me it’s all been a mistake. That’s he’s done with me.

_ No, _ I think, and I remember all the late-night phone calls, Simon asking me to talk to him until he falls asleep, all those pregnant pauses at the ends of our conversations, and me saying _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ in my head and wondering if he’s thinking the same into the silence. The way he breaks that silence with an _ um _or a huffed laugh. The way he tells me everything, when he wants to talk—like how Bunce’s little sister thinks he’s a Pokemon, or how he’s looking into courses for uni next term, finally, or how he’s made a batch of scones for me to try on my next visit (the scones never make it that long, but that’s alright). The way he tells me nothing, when he’s a million miles away, but still insists I stay on the phone. 

I undo my seatbelt. Open the door. 

I'm barely out of the car when I hear him. "Baz!" he shouts, and it doesn't matter how often we talk on the phone (or don’t talk at all), because nothing can compare to the sound of him now. He's right _ here. _And he's grinning at me, which is absolutely lovely to see. It's not often I see him smile, not since Christmas, but it's been more lately, somehow, like he's coming back. Coming back to me.

He jogs down from the front door, across the drive, and before I know it he's plowed into me, his arms flung around my neck, his invisible tail coiling down my thigh. (There's one perk of being a vampire, I suppose; at least I'm strong enough not to be bowled over.)

He does manage to knock the wind out of me, however.

"Crowley, Snow," I say, but there's no venom in it. He just huffs into my neck as I pull him closer, let myself feel the sweet, burning heat of him against me. 

And then he's pulling back, almost too soon, grinning up at me crookedly, almost drunkenly. Grinning at me. For _ me. _ The sun has kissed him golden since the last time I was here. He’s very nearly glowing, and if he wasn’t intoxicating before, _ well. _

I've memorized his face by now—of course I have—but that doesn't keep me from trying to count the freckles scattered across his nose. Because I'm close enough, _ finally. _Close enough to touch him. Close enough to hold him. Close enough to know that'd I'd be here for hours if I truly tried to count every mark on his tawny skin. 

Snow doesn't let me get very far with the counting, anyway. No, he has better plans, apparently, because he's pushing me back against my car and pressing his lips to mine. 

We've kissed, since Christmas, but not like _ this. _It's been pecks, mostly. Deeper, sometimes, soft and slow and sweet. But it's not been this, so heavy and heady and passionate. It's not felt like Simon's chasing the taste of me, not since that last night in my room in Hampshire. I'd started thinking that I'd imagined it, and then I'd swallow my shame, because Simon's been put through something trying and terrible. We all have, really, but him most of all. I don't forget that. There's no way I could.

I think, faintly, that we're doing this in public, right in the street, where anyone could see. I don't think I've ever cared about anything less, and Simon doesn't seem the least bit bothered, either.

So I let him in. Let him kiss and lick and suck at my lips. I let him take what he likes, and when he tilts his chin against me, I open for him. I think that his tongue has no right to feel this good against mine, but also it has every right. I'd let Simon Snow take me apart right here, if he wanted, right here in the middle of this quiet Hounslow street because_ Crowley, I want him_. I think I've never wanted anything as much as I want him right now.

I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, flush with me, as close as I can bring him, and he gasps against my mouth before tangling one of his hands in my hair. I think for a moment—no, I _ know_—that he wants me, too. Simon isn’t the best with saying things in words, but the way he’s pressing close, _ so _close, and the way he’s cradling my head in the broadness of his hand, the way his other hand catches at the dip of my waist and squeezes, the way his tongue is sliding wet and hot and sweet against mine…

He’s the only person I’ve ever kissed, but I _ know _this isn’t how you kiss someone you don’t love. 

Simon Snow loves me, too, I think. It’s the only option, really, no matter how absurd it may sound. I should tell him, soon, tell him how much he means to me. Tell him that I love him, that I’ve loved him for a long time. That every time I think I can’t love him more, I prove myself wrong. 

I’ll tell him, soon. But not today. Not right now. Because his mouth is killing everything I’m trying to think. (He has a way of doing that, and I don’t mind. I could never mind, not when it means I get to have Simon Snow’s lips on mine.)

All I can hear is the sound of our mouths moving together, our breaths against each other's cheeks, the quiet sighs Simon's drawing from me, and the ones I'm drawing from him—

"Oi!"

And the sound of our lips breaking apart as Simon pulls away. A rush of surprised air. 

When I open my eyes, he's flushed. I'm not sure how much of that's from kissing me, and how much is due to the fact that Bunce is stood at her front door, arms crossed as she gives the two of us her best exasperated look. (She’s perfected it, I’ll give her that.)

"Hello, Bunce," I say with a raised brow and a smirk. I keep my hold on Simon's hips, give them a squeeze.

"Hello, Basil," she says. "You done groping him in the street now, or should I leave you to it?"

I glance at Simon. His cheeks are burning hotter, and he's pulled his swollen bottom lip between his teeth. 

"What about it, Snow?" I say, softly. "Fancy a drive?"

His lips quirk back up into a grin, and I know what he's thinking. I'm thinking it, too, that I'd like to drive us out somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded, somewhere out of the city. Somewhere I can put the Jag in park, and push my seat back. Somewhere Simon can crawl into my lap and snog me until my mouth is sore. 

"We'll be back, Bunce," I tell her. She's not so far away that I can't see her quirk an eyebrow at me. "We're going for a drive."

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days I'll write a paragraph that isn't 90% parenthesized sentences, but it is not this day.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thehoneyedhufflepuff) I'm a disaster over there.


End file.
